He wondered if he were old or young--what sort of a horse he rode--whose cruel hands dragged him into the shadow of the yews and slew him, and where his head was hidden, and why.

Did the church look just the same, and the moon shine just as brightly, that night a century ago?
Bully Tom was right.

The weathercock and moon sit still, whatever happens.

The boy watched the gleaming high road as it lay beyond the dark aisle of trees, till he fancied he could hear the footfalls of the solitary horse--and yet, no! The sound was not upon the hard road, but nearer; it was not the clatter of hoofs, but something--and a rustle--and then Bill's blood seemed to freeze in his veins, as he saw a white figure, wrapped in what seemed to be a shroud, glide out of the shadow of the yews and move slowly down the lane.

When it reached the road it paused, raised a long arm warningly towards him for a moment, and then vanished in the direction of the churchyard.
What would have been the consequence of the intense fright the poor lad experienced is more than anyone can say, if at that moment the church clock had not begun to strike nine.